


nowhere to go but up

by exprsslyfrbidden



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:37:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exprsslyfrbidden/pseuds/exprsslyfrbidden
Summary: Lexa's stopped thinking "this must be rock bottom" because every time she does, something gets worse. Meanwhile, Clarke has no concept of what it's like tonotbe endlessly optimistic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a fic born from this prompt: Clexa, where Lexa is a wreck of a lost soul (like really, no job, no friends, no perfect sis Anya to support her) until she meets stubborn sunshine Clarke

Rain pelts down in stinging bullets, wind howling and whistling like the sound of impending bombs. The cold is vicious, savage in the way it cuts through the bone, and the looming darkness of the sky above does nothing to help the wintry misery that is January in the city. Clarke’s wrapped up in layers of clothes with scarves and gloves and a hat and yet the bonechill creeps in anyways, until her teeth are chattering with uncontrollable force. She’s halfway through the park. A little longer and she’ll be in her flat with the heat turned up, hot chocolate in her favorite mug, and — 

 

Her heart does a double-tap in her chest as she glances upwards to the path ahead and glimpses a black shape on the park bench ahead. First glance and she thinks  _ forgotten coat,  _ second glance and realizes it’s a  _ person.  _

 

“Shit,” she mutters through chattering teeth. How is anybody alive out here? It must be below zero, not even factoring in wind chill. Blossoming guilt and that ever-present “heart of gold” that Abby says is going to get her in trouble one day forces her to slow down before she makes a rash decision. It’s cold. She has an flat. This person doesn’t. 

 

_ It could be a meth head, _ goes Octavia’s ever-cautious voice in her head,  _ and it’s not like your flat’s huge.  _ That’s true. A gale of swirling, freezing rain hits her and a full-body shiver wracks her limbs.  _ You’d want somebody to help you out if you were in that position,  _ Raven’s voice rebuts.  _ Golden rule, right?  _

 

Clarke reaches the bench and hesitates. The wind screams and she makes the decision. “Hey,” she calls over the winter noise, reaching out to tap the person on the shoulder, “you all right?” 

 

There’s no response, no movement at all, and for a heart-stopping second, Clarke thinks she’s found a dead body. 

 

Then the person cracks open a baleful, confused eye and pushes long hair out of their face. It’s a woman. “What?” she croaks through a rusty throat. Clarke can see that she’s shivering, so badly that it’s a wonder she’s stayed on the bench. Although in this condition, she’s probably frozen to it. 

 

“Do you want to come home with me?” she shouts, and then grimaces at her choice of words. “You’re going to die out here!” The woman grunts. Clarke doesn’t know what that means until she perceives that the woman has extended a stiff arm, ungloved hand reaching out. “Jesus,” Clarke mutters, helping her up. Her skin looks blue with frost and when Clarke slips under her arm to keep her upright, it feels like she  _ is  _ carrying a dead body. “Help me out here,” she mutters, staggering a little at the weight and the slick rain on the pavement. 

 

The woman stands a little, but it’s not much help. Clarke looks up, at the block or so left until they reach her flat. “Fuck,” she sighs, and starts walking. 

 

— — — — 

 

“Lexa,” is the only comprehensible word Clarke gets out of the woman after an hour of hot chocolate, blankets and borrowed clothes. Clarke assumes it’s the woman’s name, but for all she knows it could be another language entirely. 

 

Tattered rags and pieces of fabric that had been masquerading as clothes are stuffed in a nearby trash bag. Clarke had been forced to pull out the scissors and cut Lexa’s clothes off and the image of dark swirling tattoos on honeyed skin still flashes behind her eyes when she closes them. She used to be strong. Clarke can tell she used to be healthy, used to eat enough. Then the street life had taken the muscle from her limbs, the strength from her bones; Clarke can count her ribs in a way that shouldn’t be possible. 

 

Watching Lexa sleep on the ratty couch, wrapped up in five blankets, Clarke sips her own hot chocolate and wonders how she got there. What had torn her life apart so badly that she was homeless, out on the streets in the darkest pit of winter? 

 

What would’ve happened if Clarke hadn’t found her? 

 

She shivers at the thought and goes to turn up the heat a little more. The heater in her flat is effective and that’s pretty much the only good thing about it. There’s three rooms—a tiny bedroom, a tinier bathroom, and then a kitchen that morphs into the living room. The rent is low enough for Clarke’s mediocre salary at the hospital and it’s not like she spends a lot of time home, anyways. With the holidays just over she’s finally getting time off and while she’s looking forward to having a sane sleep schedule, she’s not excited to spend time in her ratty little flat. 

 

Lexa jerks awake with a gasp, flailing in her cocoon of blankets. Clarke rushes over. She pulls a few blankets away, hands firm on Lexa’s frail shoulders. “Shh, shh,” she reassures, smoothing her palm over Lexa’s tangled locks. Wide, startled green eyes catch her gaze. 

 

“Where am I?” Lexa asks, voice still sandpaper and gravel. Her gaze rolls around the room wildly, reminding Clarke of a trapped animal. 

 

“I took you back to my flat,” Clarke explains, softening her voice to prevent startling Lexa further. “It’s below zero outside and it’s” —she glances at the drawn blinds over the window, where little fingers of ice tap against the glass — “sleeting now. I didn’t want you to die.” 

 

Lexa hums, eyes still wide with fright. “Oh.” She curls into a tighter ball, pulling the blankets tight around her. Clarke rubs her back in small circles, feeling the shivers that still wrack her body. She feels small and fragile beneath Clarke’s hand and it makes her heart ache, knowing that there are more people like this out there. She might have saved one life, but who knew how many more would flicker out tonight? 

 

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers, a bare hint of a smile ghosting across her face. 

 

Clarke feels a smile curve across her lips in response. “You’re welcome,” she murmurs. Lexa’s already asleep again. 


	2. Chapter 2

Lexa wakes up to a feeling of warm satisfaction. The homey smell of pancakes and maple syrup is a delightful aroma that lifts her gently out of sleep and into drowsy consciousness. 

 

She inhales deeply, snuggles deeper into the blankets—then her eyes snap open. She hadn’t had blankets when she’d fallen asleep last night. She takes in a small room, a lovely painting of the Toronto skyline hanging on the wall opposite. She hadn’t been  _ indoors  _ when she’d fallen asleep last night. 

 

“What the fuck,” she gasps, erupting upwards into a sitting position. There’s a woman in the kitchen who’s staring at her with wide blue eyes and Lexa feels her confusion increase exponentially. “Where am I? What’s going on?” Her throat hurts, is sore like she’s about to get a cold. Her hair is an absolute mess. Her body aches. 

 

The woman smiles at her. “I”m Clarke,” she says. “I took you in last night because it was below zero and it was raining outside. I didn’t want you to die.” She sets a plate of pancakes on the small counter, a bottle of maple syrup beside it. “Breakfast?” 

 

Lexa stares at her, information percolating into her drowsy brain. “You’re really pretty. Why are you being nice to me?” 

 

Clarke laughs, more out of surprise than amusement. “Sorry, are those two things related?” 

 

“Yes.” Lexa doesn’t look away, even when Clarke does. “You could’ve left me to die. You didn’t. Why?” 

 

“ _ Why? _ You—” Clarke looks like the dictionary definition of flabbergasted. “Okay, first of all, why would anybody let somebody else die when it could’ve been avoided? Second of all, how does me being pretty have anything to do with me saving your life?” 

 

“Pretty girls can be mean,” Lexa says, simply. She finally looks away, down at the several blankets piled on her body. “You’ve got very nice morals.” 

 

Clarke gives her a bemused look. “Thank you.” She turns back to the stove, calling over her shoulder, “If you want to take a shower, it’s down the hall. I can find some more clothes for you.” Lexa looks down at her shirt—a plain black t-shirt speckled with paint and comfy sweatpants. Not her own clothes. 

 

“Where are mine?” she asks. 

 

“Had to cut them off.” Clarke shoots her an apologetic look. “You were practically frozen last night. I thought you were going to die in my flat.” She clatters around in a drawer, adding with a voice too casual for the situation, “Your pulse stopped at one point.” 

 

“And you didn’t take me to a hospital?” Lexa asks, more to see Clarke’s reaction than out of genuine offense. 

 

Clarke’s expression takes on a tinge of pride. “I’m a nurse,” she says. “I know how to deal with hypothermia.” She pauses. “How’d you end up out there?” 

 

Lexa recalls the past year through a disjointed view, like an uninterested bystander. The bright sunshine on the day of Anya’s funeral. The robotically apologetic notice of job termination letter that she’d left on the table in her flat—a flat that doesn’t belong to her anymore. The fight with Big Brother at the homeless shelter. “Bad luck,” she says. It’s a rather accurate summary, she thinks. 

 

Clarke hums. She has no response to that. Lexa understands. There’s no sympathy, no kind empty words that can really express a proper reaction. Lexa’s homeless, probably at rock bottom right now. Those are just the facts. 

 

Although she has access to a shower. That automatically means she’s not at rock bottom. Yay. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. 

 

“Towels are in the closet.”. 

 

“Thank you.” Lexa folds each blanket into a neat square, stacking them on the couch, before walking on careful feet down the hall. She catches a glimpse of Clarke watching her before she closes the door. Strange. Clarke is strange, she decides, and probably has some screwed up backstory as well. People don’t generally take in strangers and have such powerful moral drives unless they’re making up for something in the past. 

 

She takes a look at herself in the tiny mirror. The bathroom is cramped and made for less than one person to be in it at the same time as the toilet. From the little square of reflective glass in front of her Lexa determines that she looks about that same as normal—completely shitty, the picture of filth and a perfect example for parents who point out homeless people to their children to frighten them into well-paying jobs, like being a lawyer or a doctor. 

 

Clarke’s a nurse. Lexa wonders how she got there, why she lives in such a crappy place if she is a nurse. Don’t nurses get paid a lot? A lot more than nothing, she muses, stripping off her shirt and pants. Those are folded neatly as well, balanced delicately on the sink. 

 

The water is a warm blessing on her skin. An audible gasp escapes her mouth at the feeling and she closes her eyes, lets the feeling of being human again wash over her. Showers are underrated by the general populace. Lexa would have sold her soul for a shower a couple of days ago; turns out all she needed to do was almost die instead. 

 

The mirror is blurry with condensation and Lexa takes her time dressing, limbs lanky in the small space. “Hey,” Clarke greets, when Lexa emerges amidst a small cloud of steam. “Feeling better?” She’s sitting at the couch, cup of coffee in her hands. Her eyes are bright, shadows clinging beneath them that belie long hours and a weariness that isn’t present now. 

 

“Much.” Lexa drapes the towel around her shoulders and settles next to Clarke on the couch with the plate of pancakes in hand. “Do you take in strangers often?” 

 

“Can’t say I do,” Clarke says over the rim of her mug. Her eyes are smiling. “You’re my first stray.” 

 

Lexa huffs a soft laugh. She eats slow and delicate, despite the roaring pit of hunger that has long since absorbed her stomach. “Thank you for taking me in.” 

 

“Of course,” Clarke murmurs. She’s still watching Lexa, probing gaze concerned and cautious. Like she’s afraid Lexa’s going to fall apart if she’s not careful. “There are shelters open,” she mentions. “Why were you in the park?” 

 

“Long story.” Lexa sees Clarke shift on the couch, expectant, out of the corner of her eye. “Got into a fight with one of guys there,” she says, reluctant. “There’s a prison system in some shelters. If you fuck with the people ‘in charge’, you’re out.” 

 

Clarke grimaces. “That’s terrible.” She takes a long, contemplative sip of coffee. “I hope you don’t mind me asking. What’s your deal?”

 

“My deal?”

 

Clarke’s face does a scrunchy thing as she tries to reword the question. “Like. Not to assume, but some people have drug problems, or mental health…”

 

“Oh.” How to explain this death spiral of her life? “My sister died and then things went downhill. No drugs. Loss of general purpose.” She sets her empty plate down. “Official diagnosis is probably depression.”

 

“Ah.” Clarke mirrors her action, relinquishing her coffee mug to the table. She pauses, examines Lexa’s face like it’ll give her what she’s looking for. “Would you like to live with me?” 

 

“Moving rather fast, aren’t you?” Lexa remarks. “I can’t tell if you’re insanely naϊve or a Good Samaritan who’s trying to prove something to themselves.”

 

“I’m being kind,” Clarke informs her, “and I think you’ve proven trustworthy so far.” 

 

“I’ve been awake and conscious for an hour,” Lexa points out. 

 

“I like to think I’m a good judge of character.”

 

“That’s naϊve.”

 

Clarke levels a calm look at her. “Are you saying you’re not a good person?”  

 

Lexa meets her eyes. “I’m saying that if you’re willing to house a stranger you’ve known for less than a day, then I’m not sure staying with you will be the best decision for me.”

 

Clarke’s expression turns amused, lips curling up at the corners with exasperation. “I’m sorry, do you have somewhere else to be?” she asks. “Another Good Samaritan who will take you on?”

 

Lexa raises her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll stay with you. Thanks.” She adds the last word on with a curl of sarcasm and a smile flickers across Clarke’s face. 

  
“You're very welcome.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the vaguest of plans for this fic. be prepared for anything.


	3. Chapter 3

Lexa is sitting on the couch, languidly digesting her first real meal in days, when Clarke emerges from the bedroom with an armful of clothes. She tosses the pile at Lexa. “We’re going shopping,” she says, tone leaving no room for discussion. “You need clothes.” 

 

“I don’t have money,” Lexa points out as she paws through the pile of clothes.  “Is this your way of making me indebted to you?” 

 

Clarke’s eye-roll is impressive. “I saved your life,” she says. “I don’t think buying you some clothes will top that.” 

 

Lexa plucks a neon-pink scarf from the pile. “I question your clothes-buying choices.” 

 

Clarke ignores her, though a smile plays across her lips. “Put on something warm.” She grabs a more suitable scarf, gray knit and infinite, off the coat rack. “And there’s an extra toothbrush behind the mirror, go brush your teeth.” 

 

“Yes,  _ Mom, _ ” Lexa says, dryly amused. “Just because I’m homeless doesn’t mean I’m completely incapable, Clarke.”

 

For a moment, Clarke looks suitably chastised. “Right. Sorry, bad habit.” She shoots Lexa an apologetic grin. “Some of my residents won’t even go to the bathroom unless I remind them to.” 

 

“Sounds like real fun.” Lexa pulls on a jumper over her t-shirt. The cloth drapes over her frame like she’s the clothes hanger. That’s new and slightly worrisome.

 

“It is, actually,” Clarke says. Lexa finds the toothbrush, still in the package, wedged in the tiny cabinet behind the mirror. “I enjoy the work. Taking care of people is just...the right thing to do.” 

 

Lexa hums around the toothbrush in her mouth. Idealistic, but well-intentioned. Adorable. “Tell me about your parents,” she says, taking a swig of water. 

 

Clarke peers down the hallway and Lexa can feel the question in her gaze. “Sorry?” 

 

“Your parents,” Lexa repeats. “What’s their deal?” 

 

The tone of her voice changes, closing off the slightest. “My dad’s dead. My mum’s a doctor.” 

 

“Ah.” Makes sense. The whole dying schtick kicks up trauma that would drive almost anybody to try and do something about it. Naturally, Clarke tries to fix death by helping other people, and Lexa tries to fix death by following in its path. 

 

“No condolences?” Clarke asks, the uptick of the word at the end implying that it’s a joke. 

 

“Do you want mine?” Lexa levels a calm gaze at her, one eyebrow quirked. “They’re not worth much.” 

 

Clarke gives a short laugh. “You’re right. I’ve got plenty already.”

 

They take the bus because a few steps outside in the stiff chilled air is enough to make their lungs burn. The steam of their breath hangs heavy and crystalline against the spindly reaching fingers of the bare trees. “I would have been frozen,” Lexa remarks, toeing at the frozen slush with her borrowed boots. “Ice corpse.”

 

“Hey,” Clarke says, expression crumpled in concern. “But you’re not.” 

 

Lexa inclines her head in a nod. “Right.” Clarke frowns but says no more. 

 

Silence settles on the bus. Lexa watches the movie reel road go by, wading through a thick muck of thought. The pessimism that clings viscous and black to her every thought is dripping away. Not a lot, but enough. Lexa allows herself one moment of  _ perhaps this could be the upturn?  _ before dragging herself away from that mental path. Blind hope isn’t safe, but neither is determined pessimism. No, she’s going to think about...clothes. What kind of clothes she wants, that’s a safe, neutral mental path. She starts down it. 

 

By the time they reach the mall Lexa has constructed several mental outfits. Clarke nudges her when they get off the bus, showing her a list on her phone. “I made a checklist,” she says. “You always need a game plan when you go shopping.” 

 

Lexa takes this tenet with a nod, scanning the list. It mirrors much of her mental planning, which is pleasing. “Lead the way.” 

 

Clarke does lead the way—all the way out through the mall and out again. Lexa stiffens a little when the winter chill greets them again and Clarke shoots her a grin. “This way.” 

 

Their destination turns out to be a thrift store tucked down a back street by the mall.  _ The Exchange  _ is written in blocky pink letters and Lexa suddenly knows where Clarke had gotten her neon pink scarf. “You also need a budget,” Clarke tells her, as they push through the door in a swirl of cruel wind. “Or else capitalism will suck you in and eat you alive.” 

 

“Morning, Clarke,” greets the woman behind the counter. She’s leafing through a  _ Popular Mechanic  _ magazine and  _ Raven  _ is scrawled on her makeshift duct tape name tag in red Sharpie. She eyes Lexa with sharp eyes. “Who’s this?” 

 

“Good morning, Raven,” Clarke returns, wry smile curling the corner of her mouth. “This is Lexa. She—” 

 

“Clarke took me in last night,” Lexa interrupts. “She saved my life.” 

 

Raven looks between the two for a moment, gaze analytical. “Clarke,” she says, after a slow moment, “really?” 

 

“Hey,” Clarke protests, and Lexa senses now that there is some history between Clarke and people like _ her.  _ “You’re always the one talking about the golden rule and walking in other people’s shoes.” 

 

“Walking in their shoes, Clarke, not letting them into your  _ home _ . But I see it’s too late” —Raven waves her hand, dismissing her own argument— “as you’re taking her shopping already.” 

 

Lexa tunes out the conversation the slightest as she takes in her surroundings: a high-ceilinged brick-walled room, signs hanging from the ceiling denoting the sections of the shop. The Exchange appears to dabble in more than just clothes, as there’s a section of shelves stacked with books and another with discarded electronics. 

 

“I thought you would be the supportive one,” Clarke is saying. 

 

Raven shrugs. “I am supportive of your savior complex, Clarke, but I’m also supportive of you making safe choices. Sometimes the two don’t mix.” 

 

“Not that my word means much,” Lexa cuts in, “but I do promise that I’m not a criminal.” 

 

Raven looks at her. Lexa feels judgement, keen and borne out of protectiveness, sift through her appearance. “Fine,” Raven relents. “But you do anything, and I’ll make you wish you had died.” 

 

“Raven!” Clarke hisses, but Lexa takes the threat with respect. 

 

“Of course.”

 

Clarke glares at Raven, who remains unperturbed. “Now that business is out of the way…” Raven pushes herself up from the chair and comes around the counter. “I’ll show you where the cheapest stuff is.” 

 

Lexa perceives the limp and the brace as separate things for a few seconds, then understanding snaps them together. “Bike accident,” Raven says, leading them further into the store. “Yes, it hurts. Didn’t want it amputated.” She guides them to the clearance racks, which appear to be labeled under the assumption that mice are the target customers. “Good stuff tends to be hidden, size sections are over there. Call if you need anything.” 

 

Clarke offers Lexa an apologetic look. “Sorry,” she says, “Raven gets protective.” 

 

“Don’t apologize. She’s a good friend.” Lexa leafs through the rack of clothes. “I would do the same in a similar situation.” 

 

“Make death threats?” Clarke huffs a laugh. “I’m sure. Raven could actually follow through, though. You weigh how much, a hundred pounds?” She gives Lexa a once-over. “We’re going food shopping after this.” 

 

“I know self-defense,” Lexa counters. 

 

Clarke picks out a sweater and holds it up, gauging the fit against Lexa’s frame. “Hmm. This looks good.” Lexa smiles at the change of topic but doesn’t press it. “What was your job before all this?” Clarke asks. Lexa hangs the sweater over her arm. 

 

“I was a lawyer. Working towards partner, actually.” Lexa smooths her tone out until it’s level, until emotion seems a distant relative to the words themselves. “Things didn’t go quite according to plan.” 

 

Clarke hums. “Wow. What kind of law?” 

 

“Criminal.  But at this point, civil makes more sense to me.” She picks out another sweater and drapes it over her arm. “I could’ve helped a lot of the people on the street better through civil law. Or just being employed, really.” She laughs. There still is a generous bone in her body after all. “I’ll probably do better with a job at Tim Horton’s, though. Start small.” 

 

Clarke makes a face. “I might know some people .” She leaves it at that, though, and Lexa doesn’t press. “How about this?” Clarke holds up a leopard-print jacket with a ruff of fake fur at the collar, grinning. Lexa stares at her. “I think it’d fit you quite well,” Clarke says, unfazed. She pulls out the next item on the rack. 

 

“I like that one.” 

 

Clarke looks at the leather jacket in her hand. “Yeah, I guessed as much.” 

 

“What’s that mean?” Lexa asks, sliding on the jacket. It’s big around the shoulders but the supple leather feels nice between her fingers. 

 

“You look like a leather jacket sort of woman.” Clarke hands her a couple pairs of pants. “Go try those on. And we need to get you nice clothes, too, for interviews.”

 

“You’re a one-woman shelter, hmm?” Lexa remarks, as Clarke pushes her towards the fitting rooms. “Ever consider that you’re wasting your time?” 

 

“Helping others is never a waste of time,” Clarke declares. 

 

Lexa lifts an eyebrow at the aggressive optimism, but it’s not surprising anymore, coming from Clarke. “Is that so?” 

 

“Yes. Now take your clothes off.” Lexa laughs as Clarke tugs the curtain across the tiny stall to separate them. 

 

“That usually comes  _ before _ we move in together, Clarke.” 

 

“You’re funny,” Clarke deadpans, but Lexa can hear the submerged smile in her voice through the curtain. Her tone goes delicate, somewhat reserved. “I meant to ask, are you—” 

 

“Everything’s going great, I see,” interrupts Raven. “Clarke, a moment?” 

 

Lexa hears the hesitation. “I’ll be fine, Clarke,” she calls. “Homeless, not incapable, remember?” 

 

“Right. Be right back!” 

 

Lexa tries on the clothes, but finds no difficulty. Clothes go on easy when there’s little flesh to get in the way, she observes. Although she’ll definitely need a belt. She examines herself in the mirror. While her body is gaunt there’s still some shape to her face, and her eyes are brighter than she can recall. She smiles and watches the unfamiliar action happen in the reflection. Fascinating. 

 

“You all right?” Clarke calls.

 

“Still alive, yes.” Lexa slips back into her original clothes and emerges from the stall. “Everything’s fine. I need to gain some weight.” 

 

“Exactly,” Clarke says, satisfied that Lexa agrees with her. “Supermarket is the next destination after we get you nice clothes.” 

 

Lexa tries on several pairs of pants and button-ups before finding a youth’s size that somewhat fits her body. Clarke clicks her tongue when Lexa comes out of the stall with a blazer on top of it, nodding in approval. “Yes, that’s it. You look quite dapper.”

 

“Dapper?” Lexa smiles again and the genuine feeling behind it still surprises her. “I thought I would be interviewing for jobs, not becoming an English gentleman.” 

 

“Why not both?” Clarke gathers the clothes up in her arms and waves Lexa way when she tries to help. “I can handle it, don’t worry.” 

 

“Why are you helping me so much?” Lexa asks, when Clarke pulls out her card to pay. Raven glances up from scanning the items, expression modeled in a similar skepticism. 

 

“Question seconded.”

 

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Clarke insists. “I can help people in more than just one way.” 

 

Raven shakes her head. “Clarke…”

 

“You have an awful amount of faith in me,” Lexa says. “And an optimism unbounded by reality.” She recalls the countless job interviews she’s been at, in the good breaks between downswings. Pointless, all of them—the interviews, the jobs, the effort.

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Clarke counters. “Somebody has to be optimistic here.” She gives Raven a look. 

 

“Hey, I’m  _ realistic _ ,” Raven says. “Plus, there’s a difference between optimism and idealism, Clarke. Not to say that Lexa isn’t the  _ greatest” _ —the sarcasm is heavy but hollow and unintended as an insult, and Lexa pays it no mind— “but you can’t help everyone.” 

 

Lexa nods in agreement and Clarke gives her a look. “Are you arguing against yourself right now?” 

 

“I’ve been through upswings, Clarke. You think I haven’t tried to get a job? To find somewhere to live?” Lexa shakes her head, thinks of the wasted time. “It doesn’t work out. I know how it ends.” 

 

Clarke huffs. “Well, you didn’t have me.” She raises her chin, action tinged with defiance and a challenge. “If you’re not going to believe in the process, then fine. But you’ve got to at least  _ try. _ ” 

 

Lexa lifts her shoulders in a languid shrug. “No guarantees.” 

 

“Jeez,” Raven sighs, “fine. I’ll ask around for job openings. What do you do again?” 

 

“Anything,” Lexa answers. “Used to be a lawyer but I can do any secretarial work or accounting. And I learn fast.” She wonders why she’s putting in the effort again, towards a useless goal, but Clarke beams at her and Lexa thinks  _ why not?  _

 

“Sounds good.” Raven narrows her eyes. “How did you rope me into this charity case again?” 

 

“Hey,” Lexa deadpans, “that’s offensive.” Raven and Clarke stare at her until Lexa lets a glimmer of a smile creep across her face. “Kidding. Definition of charity case, here.” 

 

Clarke chuckles. “Right. Not for long, I’m hoping. Thanks for the help, Raven.” 

 

“No problem.” Raven makes the ‘I’m keeping my eyes on you’ gesture at Lexa as they head for the door. 

 

Lexa gives her a thumbs up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I unwisely decided to write two multichapter works at the same time. Updates will be as regular as possible. Feel free to remind me to update if it's been a while @feveredreams.tumblr.com, because I _will_ get caught up in my other writing and forget that I have multiple stories going on.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can you afford this?” Lexa inquires, as they steel themselves to re-enter the howling cold. “Based on your living conditions, a shopping spree doesn’t seem wise.”

 

Clarke shoots her a look. “You’re one to talk.” 

 

“I don’t want you to spend so much money on me,” Lexa says. “You should make smart investments.”

 

They reach a street corner and Lexa tucks her hands into her pockets, shoulders rising to ward off the wind that beats at them. “Okay,” Clarke says, turning to face her. “Explain to me why you continue to doubt your own worth.” 

 

Lexa gives a tiny shrug. “Because I live with myself. I know what happens, and it’s not going to be what you want to happen.” 

 

Clarke holds up a hand. Lexa wisely stops talking. “See, it’s these self-defeating thoughts that make it impossible. Stop thinking that you know what’s going to happen. You don’t.” 

 

“History repeats itself.” Lexa crosses the street and Clarke hurries to catch up. For the first time, Clarke realizes that Lexa’s taller than she is. Her stature is small, though, crumpled in as if hiding from the cold, sheltering from the world. 

 

“Only if you don’t learn from it,” Clarke retorts. “If you  _ think _ you can’t do it, then you won’t be able to. It’s all in your head.” 

 

“So I’ve been told,” Lexa drawls, and Clarke realizes her mistake. “I admire your optimism, Clarke. It’s inspiring. Unfortunately, inspiration doesn’t pay the bills or fix the imbalance of neurotransmitters in my brain.” 

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Clarke strengthens her tone. “Still, you asked how you could repay me, right?” 

 

Lexa hums. “Don’t recall saying those exact words, but I suppose.” 

 

“You can repay me if you put in the effort to be better,” Clarke says, smiling like she’s secured a victory. “And then once you’ve got a job, you can repay me for real.”

 

“You drive a hard bargain,” Lexa jokes. “But I accept. I’ll put in effort.”

 

“One hundred percent,” Clarke reminds. “No half-assed stuff. Do you have commitment issues?” 

 

Lexa chuckles. “Who doesn’t?”

 

“Not anymore,” Clarke declares. “I want full commitment. Give me everything.” 

 

“You’re crazy,” Lexa observes. They hurry down the street and through the whooshing doors of the supermarket. “But you’re paying, so.” 

 

“Funny.” Clarke grabs a basket and pulls up her list of groceries on her phone. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?” 

 

“I’ll eat anything that’s digestible.” Lexa frowns at the selection of herbs nearby. “Even cilantro.” 

 

“You’re a cilantro-hater, hmm?” Clarke shakes her head. “Genetics did you wrong.” 

 

Lexa peers down at Clarke’s list and begins to fill a bag with apples. “Genetics?” 

 

“People who don’t like cilantro have a specific gene that makes it taste bad to them,” Clarke explains. “If you don’t have the gene, then it tastes fine to you.” 

 

“I’m guessing your genes aren’t anti-cilantro, then.” Lexa checks off  _ apples  _ on the list. “Are you a good cook?” 

 

“I would hope so. I’ve been cooking for myself since high school.” Clarke grabs a few onions and tomatoes, and Lexa checks those off the list. “You?” 

 

“I used to. Haven’t had the chance to, given recent situations.” Lexa inspects a potato, stomach growling just at the thought of food that she can  _ have.  _ “Was your mom busy?” 

 

“Busy is an understatement,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. “I saw her maybe once a week. Which is understandable, now that  _ I _ have insane hours, but….” She recalls acts of angsty teenage rebellion punctuated by violent arguments between them that could’ve been avoided. “It was lonely.”

 

“Do you still talk?” Clarke grimaces. Lexa has the uncanny ability to slide between her words and unlock their meanings with barely an effort and it’s startling, if not somewhat uncomfortable. 

 

“No.” She leaves it at that and turns that keen understanding on Lexa. “What about your parents?” 

 

There’s a closing-off that Clarke recognizes, but Lexa’s eyes stay calm. “No idea. Anya and I were both orphans. We adopted each other as siblings, but I don’t have anybody now that she’s gone.” 

 

“You must be lonely, too,” Clarke says, making her words gentle, and Lexa laughs. 

 

“Now  _ that’s  _ an understatement.” Lexa glances down at the list. “Why do you have  _ ramen  _ _ x _ _ 20 _ on here?” 

 

Clarke’s tone takes on a tinge of playful affront. “Just because I  _ can  _ cook doesn’t mean I  _ like  _ to cook. Ramen is how I survive when I get off from twelve-hour shifts.” They head for the packaged foods aisle in search of said ramen. “Do you want anything?” 

 

Lexa looks at the list again. Clarke picks out exactly twenty packages of ramen. “Do you eat rice?” Lexa asks.  

 

“I could.” Clarke follows Lexa around as she picks out a few more things. “Are you going to tell me what you’ve got planned, or is this a secret?” 

  
Lexa gives her a look that means she thinks Clarke’s being silly. “It’s a secret.” She drops some chicken into the basket. “When do you work?” 

 

“I’m on my holiday break right now,” Clarke tells her. “Since I don’t really have family, I celebrate Christmas late with my friends and work through the holidays. I work again this weekend.” She feels almost-dread creep towards her and she takes a breath, reassuring herself that she looks forward to going back to work and seeing her residents again. It’s easy enough, because she does really enjoy her work. 

 

“A four-day holiday,” Lexa observes. “Relaxing.” 

 

“It is,” Clarke insists. “I usually get one day off a week.” 

 

“What is it that you do, exactly?” Lexa asks, and Clarke chuckles at the teasing suspicion in her voice. 

 

“I work at a nursing home. It’s pretty understaffed, though, which is why I work crazy hours.” The pay is dismal, which doesn’t help the understaffing problem. “I’m trying to find a job at an actual hospital, but they want a lot of experience. Hence the current state of affairs.” 

 

“That sounds terrible,” Lexa says. “You should try unemployment. Free days all year.” Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa, who makes a face. “I mean—I love work, making money is great,” she deadpans in a monotone. “I love working so much I’m going to find a  _ job.”  _

 

“Nice try,” Clarke says, unamused. “That was probably eighty percent effort.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t know you were an expert at gauging effort now,” Lexa says, smile flickering in the shape of her mouth. “How’s this: I love working! I’m gonna get a  _ job!”  _ she exclaims, voice so falsely bright that a few people look over at them. 

 

Clarke cringes a little, but says “That’s closer,” with a laugh.

 

Lexa rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “I’m glad. I would  _ hate _ for you to not approve of my enthusiasm.” The swing of sarcasm in the words makes Clarke mirror Lexa’s eye roll. 

 

“Out of all everybody on the street,” Clarke says, “and I picked the snarkiest one to help?” 

 

“I’m your problem, not mine,” Lexa teases, and Clarke snorts. 

 

“I can’t believe you just said that.” 

 

“Oh, sorry, was that not enough effort?” Lexa leans in and Clarke’s heart skips a beat at the unexpected closeness. “ _ You  _ chose me,” she murmurs, and Clarke glimpses a twinkle in her eye, “remember?” 

 

“Clearly a bad choice,” Clarke returns, grinning, and Lexa shakes her head, faux resigned. 

 

“See,” she says, fighting the smile that’s trying to surface on her face. “hopeless charity case, here. Even you admit it” 

 

“You’re  _ not  _ hopeless,” Clarke reminds, vehement. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth, Lexa.” She guides them towards the checkout lane. “Unnecessarily sassy? Yes. Hopeless? No.”

 

Lexa laughs and Clarke marvels at the genuine clearness in the sound. She hasn’t heard Lexa  _ really _ laugh since they met. “You really know how to compliment a girl, Clarke.” 

 

“Oh, shush.” Clarke smiles at the cashier, who beams at them. “Good morning.” 

 

“Good morning.” The cashier looks between them, smiling wide. “You two are adorable, by the way.” 

 

Lexa coughs and Clarke fumbles the package of ramen in her hands. Lexa recovers first. “Thank you,” she says, and Clarke knows enough to know the mischievous glimmer in her eyes means trouble. “We just moved in together.” She’s barely keeping a smile under wraps as she says it. 

 

“Congrats!” the cashier says. “That’s a big step to take.” 

 

“It sure is,” Clarke says, shooting a glare in Lexa’s direction. Lexa avoids her gaze studiously. Clarke regrets getting all that ramen as they stand there, stuck in their lie. She glares at Lexa again and this time gets a grin in return. “Living together can be a real test of our  _ relationship,  _ though.” 

 

Lexa shrugs. “I could never find somebody better,,” she says, and even though she’s teasing, Clarke’s startled at the glimmer of honesty beneath. 

 

“I guess I did make the right choice,” Clarke says, and Lexa meets her eyes. A brief jolt of understanding passes between them, lightning quick. 

 

It’s interrupted by the cashier telling them the total, which successfully breaks the moment. “Have a great day!” the cashier says, beaming. 

 

Lexa laughs all the way out into the cold, plastic bags swinging from her hands. “I can’t believe you played along,” she chuckles, breath steaming into the sky. “You should’ve seen your face.”

 

“I can’t believe  _ you  _ played along!” Clarke exclaims. “You could’ve just said ‘we’re not together’ and that wouldn’t have been  _ nearly _ as awkward.” 

 

“Then I wouldn’t have gotten to see your expression,” Lexa says. “Quite the spectacle.”

 

“Very funny,” Clarke deadpans, but she still can’t fight the smile breaking across her face. “C’mon.” She nudges Lexa. “Let’s go home.” 


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Clarke asks, and Lexa gives her an exasperated look from over her cereal bowl. 

 

“I can handle myself for a day,” she says. She waves Clarke off. “Go, you’ll be late for work.” 

 

Clarke’s holiday break is over. They’d spent the past four days cleaning Clarke’s apartment, organizing her budget (mostly Clarke) and sleeping (mostly Lexa), watching as the snow piled up in towering white cliffs on the streets until the plows came through. They’ve finished three movies and binge-watched a good amount of Scrubs. Overall, a productive, relaxing break, and now she’s back to work again. 

 

“Go,” Lexa repeats, louder this time. “You’ll miss the bus, Clarke.”

 

“I’m going, I’m going!” Clarke wraps her scarf around her neck. “Don’t forget to eat lunch, and call me if you need anything, okay?” 

 

Lexa resists the urge to remind Clarke that she’s not a child. “Yes, Clarke. Have a good day at work.” She waves and finally Clarke goes, door locking behind her. Lexa moves to the window, sipping cheap instant coffee. Clarke smiles up at the window before getting on the bus and Lexa gives her a small wave. 

 

The apartment, usually warm and full of life, is quiet. Lexa looks around the lightly furnished living room. Old couch saved from the side of the street, used TV from Goodwill, scratched up coffee table and a dented lamp with a shade on it that looks like it belongs in the sixties. Somehow it feels like a home, even for somebody who’s long since learned to not attach such feelings to places without due caution. Sure, it’s just an old couch, but that’s also where they’d had a contest to see who could catch the most popcorn in their mouths, where Lexa had won by a close margin and Clarke had accused her of cheating. It’s an uneven, beat-up coffee table, but it’s also where they’d played a high-risks game of Monopoly where the loser had to clean the bathroom. 

 

Clarke had won that one through sheer luck. Lexa grimaces at the memory of scrubbing grime off the shower floor. 

 

Clarke makes it a home, Lexa realizes. She warms the place with memories instead of possessions. It’s a novel thought. Maybe Lexa should revise her idea of what a home is. 

 

She washes her empty coffee cup and sets it aside to dry. Clarke’s left her laptop on the table, with the offer that Lexa use it to do whatever she want, except “anything that costs money. So it’s the free porn for you.” Lexa had given her a look so offended that Clarke had laughed for a good five minutes. 

 

Lexa’s more interested in getting the news than getting off. She pulls up several news pages and clicks through various articles, unimpressed. She’s not surprised, but it looks like the world’s only gone downhill since she lost access to the internet. She checks the website of the law firm she used to work for. Looks like they’ve hired a new paralegal and somebody to fill in Lexa’s position. At least they haven’t made partner yet, she reassures herself. It hasn’t been  _ that  _ long. 

 

Lexa pauses when she sees the Twitter icon on the bookmarks bar. Her “friends”. She hasn’t thought about them in ages, not since she realized they were all networking sharks—people using her for her connections. There had been a guy who had taken her in last winter, but then he’d tried to kiss her, called her a useless, good-for-nothing bitch when she refused, and kicked her out on the street. So that leaves her with fake friends, no connections, and no reason to go on Twitter. 

 

As if she remembers her password, anyways. 

 

Lexa closes the laptop and looks around the empty apartment. She had plenty of alone time when she was out on the streets, but that was just a side effect of her situation. Here she is, alone, with a warm apartment to herself. She sits in the kitchen and just basks in the feeling for a while. Trying to think of her old life only brings discomfort, so she quits trying. She’d been different then. The person she is now is but a ghost of who she used to be. An echo. 

 

Lexa doesn’t want to think about her time on the streets, either. That’s over now—maybe for good, she thinks, thanks to Clarke’s boundless optimism—and she doesn’t want to revisit it unless forced to. 

 

What else is there? Her past, her...recent past, her present? Clarke. Lexa’s lips turn up in a wry smile. The strangest person to come into her life in recent memory, and she’d once met an accordion-playing man missing a hand and a foot at the homeless shelter. 

 

Clarke Griffin, with her almost-foolish hope and golden heart. If Lexa’s honest, Clarke scares her. People who break are the norm. People break all the time, under pressure, under the weight of life and the burden of responsibility; Lexa broke. It’s a fact, not a judgement. Clarke, though, Clarke...she fixes other people. She fixes people and uses that to fix herself, stopgap measures for her own cracked soul. Clarke’s unbroken and shattered at the same time, and Lexa can’t fathom it. 

 

Why else would she try so hard to help other people, if not to mend some gash in her own heart? Lexa knows how it works. You do good to ignore the emptiness inside you, focusing everything on other’s pain so you have nothing left to think about yours. That’d been half the reason why Lexa had gone into law. 

 

At the same time, though, who but an unbroken person can be so wholly dedicated to goodwill towards others? Lexa frowns, tapping her fingers on the table. Clarke gives without even thinking about it. That irritatingly endless optimism—where could that come from but somebody who’s never experienced any pain in life? 

 

She imagines what Clarke might’ve been through. Absent mother, dead father...that by itself would be enough to break somebody, for sure. Rebellious teenage years? Classic symptom of inner turmoil brought on by a fractured family. No, Clarke was broken, that was without a doubt. Lexa pauses as a thought occurs to her. 

 

The strongest people break and become better, take the bitterness of before and build it into kindness. Lexa can see it now, though: Clarke takes her kindness and builds up other people. What was it Raven had said?  _ I am supportive of your savior complex, Clarke.  _

 

Savior complex, indeed. What a coping mechanism. 

 

Lexa takes a nap and wakes up at four, a few hours before Clarke’s due to come back. She lies on the couch and stares up at the popcorn ceiling, reveling in the feeling of warmth and safety. She still feels the urge to check her surroundings every few minutes, a holdover from the constant vigilance the last shelter instilled in her, but the habit is fading. Clarke’s apartment is safe, and for now—her home. 

 

A faint grumbling of hunger urges her up. Lexa peers into the fridge and surveys the pantry with care. The instinct to automatically preserve food and measure how long it’ll last hasn’t yet left her. She looks at the milk and the few cans and calculates that those can last a few weeks, if she really rations it out—then remembers where she is and what she’s doing. 

 

Clarke’s been cooking for the past few days. She claims that it’s stress-relieving. Still, Lexa’s pretty sure that she’d love to come home to a cooked meal, and her hands itch at the thought of it. It’s been a while since Lexa cooked but it’s no hard task to look up a few recipes and check that she still recalls all the steps. 

 

She washes the rice and turns on the stove. Even though it’s a new kitchen, Lexa finds that the movements come back easy. Anya had taught her how to cook when they’d had access to a kitchen. 

 

_ “Anything can be edible if you learn how to cook it right,”  _ she’d said.  _ “That’s why there’ll always be a demand for chefs.”  _ Before that, they’d cooked pilfered bits of food over a makeshift fire in the backyard of the orphanage, adding what nutrients they could to an already meager food allowance. 

 

Lexa wonders if she can find a job as a chef. Probably. She pours the rice into a pot and adds water, opening the fridge and pulling out a few vegetables. Does she really want to work in a kitchen all day, though? Slaving away over a hot stove, making endless orders? Lexa purses her lips. Doesn’t sound fun. 

Thought it’d pay, and she is uncomfortable with owing Clarke so much. 

 

Lexa pulls out a chopping board and begins to dice the vegetables. Finding a job is how she’s going to repay Clarke, no matter how unpleasant the work. She adds  _ chef  _ to the list of potential jobs, below  _ fast-food job  _ and  _ lawyer?  _

 

She loves law. It makes sense to her. The words are strict yet malleable, and so much can rely on the strength of her words and arguments. It’s a puzzle, one that requires discipline and determination to solve. Law’s probably her one true love, but she knows how difficult it’ll be to return to the field after her little ‘break’. Sure, she does have connections. But the discipline and determination from before feels weak, hard to grasp. Lexa doesn’t know if she can do it anymore. 

 

She finishes chopping the vegetables and takes out a package of frozen chicken tenders. She sets those on the table to defrost and glances at the clock. She has about an hour until Clarke gets home, and it’ll take at least ten more minutes for the rice to cook. Might as well do a few exercises. 

 

She goes to the living room and pushes the table to the side, getting into position for a few push-ups. Before her homeless situation, Lexa had been a faithful devotee of the gym, dedicating a good portion of her time to making sure she was healthy and in shape. Now, though, she’s not sure if she can even do one push-up. 

 

Turns out, she can do four. On the fifth her arms, shaking, give out. 

 

Lexa lies on the floor for a bit, just breathing and simmering in disappointment. Turns out eating practically nothing for months will absolutely destroy your musculature. Who knew? 

 

She gets up after a bit more wallowing and checks the rice. Once it’s done, she transfers it to a pan and adds the vegetables. Fried rice is something she can pull off with a relatively small amount of ingredients, and it’s always filling. She lets that sizzle for a bit while she sticks the chicken in the microwave. Nothing like freeze-dried meat to really round out your meal. 

 

She’s done five minutes before Clarke’s due back in, pots and pans washed, food on the table. Lexa looks down at it with a blooming sense of pride. Making food, that’s another underrated aspect of civilization that you don’t appreciate until it’s too late. 

 

That done, Lexa tries for another few push-ups, which is why Clarke comes in and finds her lying on the floor. 

 

Their gazes lock. “Hello,” Lexa says. 

 

“What are you doing?” Clarke asks, after a moment frozen in the doorway. Her gaze catches on the food. “Wait, did you make that?” 

 

“Yeah. How was work?” Lexa pushes herself up off the ground. Clarke tosses her keys in the bowl, discarding layers of jackets and scarves and gloves. 

 

“Pretty standard. The TV in the lounge broke, though, and we almost had an elderly riot on our hands.” Clarke pulls off her beanie and final jacket, sniffing the air. “That looks  _ really  _ good.” On cue, her stomach growls. Lexa chuckles. 

 

“I thought it’d be nice if you came home and didn’t have to cook.” She grabs two bowls from the cabinet and a few utensils. 

 

“Thanks,” Clarke says, eyes wide. “Wow.”

 

Lexa raises an amused eyebrow. “Why so surprised? You know I can cook.” 

 

“Well, yeah, but—I just didn’t expect it. Coming home to food is...really nice.” Clarke’s smile is warm and fond and Lexa’s surprised at the genuine emotion in it. “Thanks, Lexa.”

 

Lexa shrugs it off. “It’s the least I could do.” 

 

Clarke turns on the water in the sink, scrubbing her hands. “So, why exactly were you on the floor?” 

 

“I was trying to work out.” Lexa shakes her head and tries to dispel the flash of disappointment that comes at the thought of how weak she’s become. “I’ve lost a lot of muscle, though.” 

 

Clarke makes a sound of sympathy, settling at the table across from Lexa. “That must be frustrating.”

 

Lexa huffs, the sound half-derisive and half-chuckle. “You can say that again.” She feels Clarke’s gaze on her, observing and keen, and makes effort to keep her expression neutral. The silence presses on her, though. The words she’s trying to keep down rip free. “I don’t even know why I’m trying,” Lexa says, voice sharper than intended. “There’s just” —heat flashes behind her eyes and she blinks fiercely, looking down— “so much I have to do. So much I’ve lost.” She expels a breath, hoping this dreadful hopelessness will leave her body along with the air. It doesn’t. “It feels pointless.”   
  


Lexa looks away from Clarke, away from the inevitable sad expression. “Sounds like you’re finding it difficult to see any future for yourself.” This doesn’t sound like a sad Clarke. She sounds contemplative. Understanding. Lexa glances up. Clarke’s looking at her, steady and calm. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” Lexa says. “What future  _ do  _ I have for myself? Going back into law is next to impossible. The jobs I can get are going to be minimum-wage and unpleasant.” She stabs a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. “I might as well give up now.”

 

“Is that what you want to do?” Now Clarke sounds sad. Well, no. She sounds... _ disappointed. _ “Give up?” 

 

Lexa grits her teeth. “Yeah,” she says, humor turning sour, “I’ll give a hundred percent effort into  _ that.”  _

 

It’s Clarke’s turn to sigh. “Lexa…” She pauses. “You’re frustrated, and disappointed in yourself. Starting from nothing is hard. It’s going to be unpleasant. And if you feel like you need to give up right now...that’s okay.” Lexa stares at her, trying to figure out what angle Clarke’s going for. “But you’re not alone, all right?” She smiles. Lexa’s chest constricts. She doesn’t deserve this kindness, but here Clarke is, smiling at her. “I’m right here.” 

 

Guilt washes over her and Lexa pokes at her food. She’s not hungry anymore.  _ You’re not alone.  _ What does that even mean? Lexa’s always been alone. Even when Anya was alive they were individuals, fighting the same war together but separate in their battles. Solitude used to be her strength. She used to be strong.

 

But here she is, giving up.  _ Might as well,  _ she thinks. Clarke’s given her express permission to do so now. Still, that soft voice sticks in her ears. Lexa had expected pushback, an argument against giving up. She’d been handed the exact opposite, and now…

 

“This is really good,” Clarke says, pointing at the rice. There’s no trace of their conversation in her expression, only genuine appreciation. “Thanks again for cooking.”

 

Lexa nods, wordless. Clarke’s done so much for her and all she can do is sit and mope? Embarrassment and guilt squeeze her heart and the urge to apologize rushes through her body. 

 

_ Sorry.  _ One little word would be enough. 

 

Still, though, Lexa thinks of the future. The dread wave of hopelessness drowns her again, and she swallows the apology on her tongue. They eat in silence. 


End file.
